


non c’è da vergognarsi

by sencha



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: F/F, subjectively faint hints of emil/michele and otabek/&yuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 14:02:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10492464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sencha/pseuds/sencha
Summary: Sara loses her third place ranking.(in which tripadvisor is unreliable, michele can't take a hint, and sara wins in all the ways that actually matter)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TereziMakara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TereziMakara/gifts).



> To TereziMakara: Thank you for giving me the opportunity to write this! All your prompts were super lovely and I hope this caters at least in part to your tastes :)
> 
> huge thanks to myst and juju for helping with the italian title and also lira for getting me in touch with juju! it should translate to 'there is no shame' if i haven't messed up along the way

She is told, _you will not make that jump_. The next instant, it is as if the ice melts away underneath her, a vast abyss forming at her feet. There is nowhere solid left to land, save for flat on her face, her skin blooming red from the sting of humiliation.

She cries. As always, Mickey comes beside her then, holding her hand tight, kissing the cold from her cheeks. He tells her, _Sara, you can do anything_ , gazing defiant up at the tall figures which dare say otherwise. His voice is soft and urgent, brimming both with conviction and adoration; its youthful timbre is what she hears behind each track when she dances in competition.

But there are voices which must be put aside for the sake of competition; there are bonds which do not hold past adulthood. She is twenty-two when Mila Babicheva leapfrogs her to claim third place in the world rankings.

 

❄

 

Second place is the first loser, insofar as trite sayings hold true, offering little comfort to those standing shivering on the podium, one step down from the ideal. Sara has placed second before, of course; she has failed to place enough times to be familiar with loss. Seldom, though, does she lose like this, outjumped and outskated, to a woman four years her junior.

She was expected to win. Had expected it, coming off the ice with a triumphant smile. It was her event to lose, in spite of the whispers that had preceded Mila’s arrival, the keen eyes which follow the junior division closer than the reporters which tail Sara on her way back to the changerooms. The loss hurts because she is only twenty-one and already time is dragging at her. If Mila had been born one year, two years, five years later – but any professional knows the _what ifs_ are the most dangerous kinds of thoughts.

She will simply have to live with this reality, where she cannot jump a quadruple axel, where Mila is forever on her heels. Sara will simply have to be better.

“You skated beautifully,” she tells Mila, her voice raw and her eyes red. She expects to be told _thank you_ in return, or perhaps _you too_ – some cursory form of acknowledgement. They have spoken briefly a number of times in competition, after competition, at all the usual social functions, but their circles tend to run in parallel, so Sara is unsure she can even call Mila an acquaintance.

This may be why it takes her by surprise when Mila pulls her in close, kisses her on one cheek and then the other in a familiar, comforting gesture. Her arm remains around Sara even when she draws back to face the cameras closing in on them. “Winners,” she says, holding her head high, her grip unfailing on Sara’s shoulder.

There is this perspective too.

 

❄

 

Mila approaches most obstacles with the same strange, refreshing camaraderie. Sara takes her out for lunch the next day, ostensibly in congratulations, but more privately as a thank you of sorts, for reminding her that second place is not half bad after all. Although Milan is closer to home for Sara than Mila, she is more than happy to let Mila lead the way to a place she swears has the most authentic pizza in Milan.

Or rather, _had_ the most authentic pizza in Milan, judging by the construction work going on where tripadvisor claims there should be a thriving pizzeria. Sara nudges the back of Mila’s hand with her own. “There are plenty of other places.”

“I want to eat the pizza from _this_ place,” Mila complains, scrubbing her hands through her hair. It sticks out all over when she lets go. Unbidden, Sara’s hands go to her own hair. She lets the long, straight strands fan out between her fingers and wonders whether Mila’s hair would feel different in their place. Then Mila straightens, takes Sara’s arm in hers, and begins marching back the way they came. “If we cannot have this pizza, we will have no pizza.”

As a result, they end up huddled over a table on a terrace somewhere on the south end of the city, scooping mouthfuls of ice-cream from a towering stack of stracciatella, fior di latte and about thirty-seven other flavours balanced within a fluted waffle basket.

“Better than pizza,” Mila declares with great satisfaction.

Sara stares doubtfully at the rivulets of chocolate sauce dripping onto the table. “I’m not sure our trainers would agree.”

She is taken aback when Mila leans in suddenly, placing her fingers lightly on Sara’s forearm, close enough for Sara to feel the warmth of her skin. “ _My_ trainer has no say in what I eat today,” she says, buzzing with excitement. “ _It’s my free day._ ”

“It’s not mine, though,” Sara counters, indignant. “Now I’ll be out-of-shape for our next competition while you skate circles around me.”

“That’s why we’re sharing,” Mila explains. She points her spoon at Sara. “Half of my free day to you, and half to me.”

“That’s definitely how it works,” laughs Sara, feeling her lips curve into a fond smile. She can already hear Mickey’s concerned voice starting up in the background. _This is good_ , she tells imaginary Mickey. _I like her._

_That’s the problem,_ imaginary Mickey replies, sounding far more reasonable than actual Mickey ever does. As always, she ignores him.

 

❄

 

Sometimes Sara grows tired of playing the successful senior to her rinkmates, so it is something of a relief to be able to text _how was practice_ without being expected to provide advice. Mila sends her a photo of Yuri Plisetsky scowling into the camera, the drawstrings of his hoodie pulled tight up to his chin.

_Cute,_ Sara gushes, with a tiny tiger face emoticon to accompany her message, and is rewarded with a snap of Yurio blushing, clearly yelling something across to Mila, who has squashed herself in beside him to forcefully include him in her selfie. Sara strokes a finger over the screen, tracing Mila’s bright smile thoughtlessly. Unusually self-conscious, she brushes her hair back over her ear and flips the phone around to take a selfie of her own. _Tell him I am wanting to see him again_ , she writes, pursing her lips together to kiss the air.

Her hands are shaking slightly when she sends the photo, clumsy in anticipation. She isn’t sure exactly what she is waiting on until her phone chimes again, Mila kissing the screen in return, holding Yuri in a headlock under her arm. _Come visit! GPF in Moscow this year._

Sara imagines it: sitting rinkside together, Yurio’s grandfather’s famous pirozhky filling their mouths with steam. There is no doubt in her mind that she will make it.

 

❄

 

Mickey insists on accompanying her even though he will not be skating himself. “Not everywhere in the world is as safe as Nonna’s house in Naples,” he lectures, trundling both their hand-carry suitcases behind him. “If any suspicious men are making you uncomfortable, come tell me right away.”

“For goodness’ sake, Mickey,” Sara finally snaps, “can you not last one weekend without me?”

The answer is, of course, no. Ever since they were children, Mickey has made a point of picking the same schedule as Sara, even when he would be better suited to another. While she appreciates the sentiment, it is infuriating.

“He is too much,” she complains into the phone, flopping back onto her bed. “You must come and take him away.” Truthfully, she is concerned. Mickey follows her to many events he himself is not participating. He calls himself her number one fan, but Sara knows he is a skater, too, as much a competitor as she is, and she knows how painful it can be, seeing others dancing in a time slot that could have been your own.

Emil’s laughter is sweet in the receiver. “I’ve been trying for three years, babe,” he tells her, soft. “As luck would have it – or not – I didn’t make it this year either, but my sponsors are happy for me to come watch.”

“I’ll be counting on you to distract him.”

“Only if you promise to come along once in a while too,” Emil replies. “I miss your beautiful face.”

“Charmer,” Sara giggles. “See you soon.”

True to his word, Emil begins bombarding Mickey with texts as soon as Sara updates her Instagram at arrivals. _The two cutest skaters,_ Emil replies via his public account, much to Mickey’s horror.

“He thinks you are cute,” Mickey rages, while they are waiting for the rest of their bags to come. “He is correct! But what gives him the right to express that opinion?!” As always, he misses the rest of Emil’s meaning.

Mila sends Sara a private snap – her and Yuri at a stall downtown. _Can’t tell who’s more excited to see you,_ the caption reads, and Sara’s heart grows three sizes larger, spreading warmth down to her toes.

_I think Yuri just wants that leopard-patterned cup_ , she says, just to point out the obvious. Unlike Sara’s idiotic twin, Mila does not overlook what there is to read between the lines.

_Yuri has his priorities all wrong,_ Mila sends. The words are all too easy to imagine in Mila’s strong, confident tone – Sara looks at them for a long, long time before hugging her phone to her chest and re-joining Mickey at the conveyor.

 

❄

 

She is only there a day before Mickey bursts in, wringing his hands, clearly feeling obliged to bring her news he does not want to pass on. “Emil invited us to play cards in his room. I thought you might be busy, but he is insisting. I’m more than happy to go in your place,” he says, as if he has not attempted this tactic nine hundred times in the past.

Sara has both the sweetest and stupidest brother in the world. “Go then, shoo.”

He looks surprised but relieved; Sara hasn’t the heart to tell him the truth. Mickey can come to the realisation in his own time that Sara also has a phone which she uses to communicate personally with skaters such as Emil. She went to his room on Sunday to watch cat videos and listen to the new album released by his favourite band.

_Good luck,_ she texts Emil, then flips to Mila’s contact. _Lunch?_

_Just finished practice_ , Mila replies. _Meet me at the rink?_

When Sara wanders down, Mila is holding Yuri’s phone high above her head while Yuri yells expletives into her chin. “How are you torturing him today?”

“Old hag!” Yuri howls. “Give it back!”

Unfazed, Mila stretches higher – Sara is momentarily stunned again by how long and elegant the line of Mila’s body is, by the poise she carries herself with. “ _Someone’s_ been glued to their phone all practice,” Mila teases, as if the papers haven’t been covering the story of Kazakhstan’s hero and Russia’s fairy for months now. “It’s my duty to make sure he isn’t being distracted by anything _untoward_.”

“Otabek isn’t untoward!” Yuri screeches. Sara sees the moment he realises exactly what he’s said – he freezes stiff, face colouring in an instant, and perhaps out of pity Mila’s hand lowers just enough for him to snatch his phone back and flee to the other side of the rink.

“You shouldn’t tease him so much,” Sara reproaches, not at all seriously. “He seems the type to hold a grudge.”

“Don’t be silly,” Mila scoffs, waving her hands dismissively. “That boy loves me.”

Sara sees them later, cheering together for Otabek during his practice. Mila’s probably not wrong. For now, she’s careful to abide by Mila’s words, to refrain from saying anything too unreasonable – so she bites down on the automatic confession threatening to spill from her lips. Mila deserves more than a spur-of-the-moment exclamation.

Instead, Sara holds up her phone. “Three hundred and two reviewers gave this restaurant five stars,” she begins, only to have Mila shake her head vigorously.

“Oh, no no,” Mila exclaims. “We are not trusting that fraudulent website again.” She turns back to Yurio. “Your annoying friend likes to take his wife on dates to nice places, does he not?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Yurio says. Although he is scowling, he does also look genuinely confused.

Mila flaps her hands impatiently. “The stuck-up one. You know, with his head _this_ far up his own – ”

“He’s not a _friend_ ,” Yuri says, with very real disgust. Sara almost feels pity for Jean-Jacques. He has become much more tolerable over the years, particularly since the debacle in Barcelona.

“Nonsense,” says Mila, snatching Yuri’s phone back. “You’ve liked his Instagram photos. Let me see.”

”Plan your old woman dates on your own phone,” Yuri growls, making a poor attempt to kick Mila away – but Mila is bigger and stronger; she wrestles the phone from Yuri’s grasp and turns to smile victoriously at Sara, and she looks beautiful, flushed and grinning, her chest heaving from the exertion.

Sara is ranked fourth in the world now, and she in two days, if all goes well, she will claim first prize at the Grand Prix Final. Nobody dares tell her she cannot make a jump anymore, because she has proved them wrong over and over again, to the beat of Tchaikovsky and Iglesias and hundreds more in between.

Mickey is wrong about many things, though he tries his best to make them right for her. Sara thinks if she could speak to her past self, she would tell her _you cannot do everything, but you can do more than you think you can._

“The pair dance,” Sara blurts out, “at the closing ceremony. I want to skate it with you.”

Mila’s mouth drops open. There is a moment where they meet eyes, searching for confirmation and finding it in one another, and then Mila is jumping into Sara’s arms, nearly unbalancing her, hugging her tight. Sara’s heart is jumping in her chest, soaring and pounding against her ribs.

 

❄

 

Sara makes her jumps without faltering, skates what is undoubtedly perhaps the best performance of her career. Mickey is crying out of the kiss-and-cry, too beside himself to notice Emil giving Sara a thumbs up behind him. “You are in the wrong place,” Sara tells her brother, pushing him away; he sticks to her anyway, mumbling incoherent words of affirmation into her neck, repeating, over and over: _I knew you could do it._

Mila’s face is set in concentration as she takes to the ice. They are competitors, in this moment, as much as anything else, but when Mila, too, skates a perfect programme, Sara cheers loud. _Winners_ , she mouths, when Mila finally casts her eyes across the audience, watching Mila’s smile grow just that bit brighter for her.

They take the podium together, albeit on different levels – they both think _next time, next time_. First there is the pair skate for them to enjoy, and celebratory ice-cream to be had afterward. Sara takes Mila’s hand in hers, lifting it high.

And she is proud.


End file.
